


mutual satisfaction

by coinner



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, ken doll connor au, this is literally an excuse to write skullfucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-06 22:47:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16396547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coinner/pseuds/coinner
Summary: all hank wants is for connor to feel something too.





	mutual satisfaction

**Author's Note:**

> i cannot believe i actually fucking wrote this. 
> 
> i dedicate this actual skullfucking fic to the entire ye old detroit cum dump discord server. i love you all. 
> 
> this fic also contains art by the amazing alex-van-gore on tumblr which is incredibly nsfw and possibly gore-y. so, warnings for that.

Having an android for a partner offered a lot of benefits, which Hank had began to realize after only a few months of Connor living with him. For one: stamina. 

Connor couldn’t get enough of him, and for once that was a good thing. At work, it was annoying, borderline harassment, but Hank could handle it at home. It was a different kind of ego boost when a young thing like Connor was constantly aching to pull off Hank’s pants. 

But when Connor couldn’t stop pushing Hank to do more and more, eventually, it seemed like they’d run out of ideas. There were limitations that prevented them from doing most ideas. 

Anatomical limitations.

Connor wasn’t exactly made for the type of activities they were doing--and since Cyberlife’s fall, no hope of actually acquiring the correct materials. Androids were considered people now, but too many were stuck with whatever bits they had to start with, no hope of getting the full ‘human experience’, even if they wanted to.

But Hank had been doing research, the kind of research that made him leery about going near other androids-in case they could somehow sense his internet history. He was even nervous being around Connor for those reasons, although his curiosity made for interesting conversation topics (with even more interesting endings). He knew some things. 

But everything had come up short. There was a pressing issue that Hank personally couldn’t get over, despite Connor’s innocently assuring him that all was well on the homefront. Connor never...got anything out of anything they did. Everything was one sided. 

“I told you, it’s fine.” Connor explains again, “I find it...mutually beneficial.”

“Not good enough.” Hank complains right back. “It’s completely fuckin’ different.” 

“I understand that. But I’m telling you it isn’t an issue.” 

“There has to be something," Hank said with a frown.

Connor shrugged. 

“I don’t understand why you focus so much on this. I enjoy our activities, Hank.” 

Hank ran his hand through his hair, letting out a heavy sigh. “Con, it’s like...selfish of me to be like this, you know?” he said.

Frowning, Connor looked over at him, where they were sitting thigh-to-thigh on the couch. 

“I don’t think of you as a selfish person. I just lack the equipment to participate, that’s all.” he reassured.

 _Yeah, and it’s pretty fucked up that they made an android that’s supposed to assimilate with humans perfectly, but forgot to give him a dick._ Hank thinks. It was just really unfair, and if Hank had a moment alone with any of those Cyberlife honchos, he wanted to give them an earful. 

It is frustrating, to say the least. 

\----- 

It starts off as an accident. 

Hank thrusts too deeply into Connor’s mouth one time, and Connor isn’t able to make any sound once it’s over. 

Hank, of course, panics through the afterglow.

“Con--oh god, are you alright?” He pet Connor’s hair, stroking down the android’s face, nervously touching his partner with increasing anxiety.

Connor, of course, isn’t able to answer that question. He nods though, standing up, moving away from Hank, miming helplessly, trying to explain that he was fine. 

Hank looks back at him, even more confused, his eyebrows furrowed together. 

Hank lets him go enough to get to the kitchen, only steps away from where they had settled, and search for something to write with. 

Connor settles for the takeout menu, and scribbles in nearly perfect, tiny handwriting on the blank sides, “Voice processor broken.”

“Well, yeah, I figured that.” Hank says. “How do you fix it?” 

Connor glances at him, his LED flickering between blue and yellow. Hank knows only a little about what that means, but understands it as if Connor is thinking. 

He turns to the paper again. “You have to reset it.” 

Reset it? Hank looks down at Connor’s near perfect Cyberlife handwriting, combing his mind of any mention of a reset button. Hank knows a bit about how Connor works, but he comes up short. 

Connor grabs the paper, spins it around, and starts writing on the other side, even smaller than before. 

“You have to reach into my diagnostic port and find the switch.” he writes quickly. 

“What?” Hank could read, he just doesn’t understand. 

Connor grabs his wrist with a gentle kind of force and moves Hank’s hand to rest on the back of his head, the small dip where his hairline meets his neck. In that space, Hank feels the skin shift, and where there was solid skin, hair and what he presumed bone there is now a hole. About the entire width of this area, and inside, it glowed blue.

A hole. That lead inside Connor’s head. 

Running out of room on the menu, Connor’s handwriting gets even more crunched, writing between the options. “It’s not very complicated, apparently. It should be along your left side.” He holds up the paper for Hank to read. 

Hank looks down into the hole again, where his hand covers it. Inside, it looks complex, but not wiry. Hank struggles to find a way to think of it, when in actuality it just reminds him of a bright blue brain. He’s seen brains before, and didn’t particularly enjoy those opportunities, as most of them came from autopsies. It looks way too fragile for him to be sticking anything inside, especially a hand. Particularly Hank’s hand, which he thought as larger than the typical hand, and definitely larger than Connor’s hands. Cyberlife didn’t design this...hole for that reason. “Have you ever had to do this before?” He’s stalling, and the guilt eats him up. He did this, and he is hesitating in fixing it. 

Connor’s shoulders move as if he was sighing, and then he turns to the paper again. 

“I’ve never accessed my diagnostic port.” the paper reads. 

Great, so for Connor this is uncharted waters too.

Hank takes a breath in, and out. Psyching himself up. He doesn’t think he can get used to this, and can’t stall any longer. Connor’s distressed shifting is only getting worse while he places a steadying hand on Connor’s shoulder. 

“Alright. Here goes nothing.” Hank says to no one, and immediately dips his index and middle finger into the hole in his partner’s skull.

Inside, everything is soft. Wet. Pliable in a way he doesn’t expect. He remembers what he was told as his fingers skate along his left side, feeling through the membrane for any sort of mechanism. Beyond the initial walls, there is a hardness Hank doesn’t understand. Like this particular passageway was meant to be soft, but beyond that was all metal. What was the point in that?

Connor on the other hand, begins to shake, his shoulders nearly vibrating under Hank’s touch. Which isn’t helpful. And is concerning. 

Hank pulls his fingers out, and with it comes a blue string of sticky, viscous liquid. “Does that hurt?” he asks. 

As an answer, Connor’s hand roughly grabs Hank’s and moves it back to the entrance, as close as he can manage without dislocating his shoulder. 

Hank takes this as a sign to continue. Connor probably wants to get this over with, he thinks. It can’t be too comfortable to have someone digging around your head, he imagines, though the experience wouldn’t be the same. So he tries again.

His fingers find where he left off. He tries not to think about the feeling, how slippery everything was to his digits, how strangely warm. Tries not to complicate things more than they already were. Things were confusing enough as it was, being so different in the first place. If anything, this just seemed like the next natural step to their confusing time together. 

Connor is still vibrating, and Hank grits his teeth in solidarity. He wants this to be over just as much as he does, he would do anything to stop having his hand inside Connor’s skull. 

When his entire hand is flush against the entrance, he finds a knob through the walls of the passageway. Without really understanding what he was doing, he adjusts it the best he can with just the pinch of his two fingers. 

Connor mewls. The sound that comes out of his throat is unlike anything Hank had ever heard before, and the release of sound breaks the tension Connor was holding in his body and he jerks. It sounds primal almost. It sounds like need. 

Hank pulls his fingers out and quickly takes a step back. “Con?” 

Connor’s breathing is hard, and when he turns, his face is blue with a flush Hank has never seen before. “H-hank…” His voice is breathy, barely there. It’s something that goes straight to his dick, but emotionally he feels awful about it. 

“I’m so sorry I had to do that…” Hank says, “But I guess I fixed it. Did it hurt a lot?”

Hank doesn’t want to think he caused Connor pain, or whatever the equivalent is to him. It was bad enough that he couldn’t do anything for him in other departments, watch him just make more moves to make Connor miserable. Based on his mistakes. And to be even remotely turned on by the aftermath just proved what a despicable person Hank is to begin with.

Connor doesn’t answer, instead turning and reaching for Hank’s hands, which he gives over. 

“Do it again.” Connor finally says. 

\----

 

When it happens again, it’s intentional. 

They start out in the living room, where watching television turned into something more. 

Hank doesn't realize how far it's going until their kiss is broken, interrupted by Connor swinging a leg over him, settling in his lap. Connor’s arms wrap around his shoulders again, his expression asking for more more. That more, Hank tried to deliver, settling his hands on Connor's hips, dragging him flush against his chest. 

Connor ruts against him, even with nothing down there, it's enough pressure to elicit a hiss from Hank. 

“You're gonna kill me, kid.” he manages to get out, breathless. 

“I sincerely doubt that.” Connor replies, raising an eyebrow. “Your heart rate indicates--”

Hank takes that as a challenge, grabbing the base of Connor's neck to jerk him closer, interrupting his mindless flow of information. 

“Open this.” He says, lips ghosting the very tips of Connor's earlobe, his hands feeling around the base of Connor's neck. 

Connor’s words falter, stop, and beneath Hank’s hands the skin shifted, the diagnostic port opening. 

“Good boy.” 

He tries not to think about it too much as he slips his index and middle finger inside. The effects are immediate, Connor's back leaning into his touch, a small moan escaping from his lips. 

It's relieving to say the least, to finally have something to make Connor come undone just a bit. Muss up that hair, make his serious face come apart. 

Hank is up to his knuckles, gently pushing in and out, when Connor breathes out what he wants, his LED cycling a bright blue. 

“...Are you sure?” Hank asks, incredulous. 

Connor nods. 

Connor is on his knees, facing away from Hank, completely naked. The top of his head is in perfect alignment with Hank’s belly button as he stands behind him, thinking through this decision. 

Hank is trying to not think of the logistics of this. For one, it puts a damper on the mood. Secondly, it wasn’t worth the time to think of it. For Cyberlife to come up with this ass backwards thing...Hank had a different set of words for them now. 

Because, in a weird fucked up kind of way, he had a reason to be thankful. 

The opening in Connor’s skull reveals itself again with a near silent click, almost lost in the breathing between them. Connor doesn’t need to breathe, Hank knows at least that much, but he guesses it means something like anticipation in the way Connor is handling himself now. 

He wants this, Hank reminds himself. And because Connor wants it, Hank should at least try it. He tries not to think about how odd it is. Because overthinking was the death of sex, and Hank wants to enjoy this as much as possible. 

Their first mutual satisfaction. 

Connor didn’t know how to explain it when he eventually did. They had talked about it for a while, Connor trying to explain the basics of feeling stimulation to someone who had never needed to think about it before. Hank had been born with the ability to feel, whereas for Connor, it was new. 

“It’s like...something is building up.” 

“Like what?” 

“I’m not sure. I’m quite eager to see the end.” 

And Hank is eager to deliver it. 

Hank presses the head of his dick to the opening, and is relieved to see that it fills out that opening, but not in a bad way. He feels the warmth, the stickiness, and it almost sickens him how much he wants it now. 

Connor’s breath hitches. “Please.” 

With an agonizingly slow pace, Hank pushes inside, as gentle as he dared to go. When he reaches fully inside, he sighs out, content. It feels better than he expected, and if he doesn’t think about it, he might even find it enjoyable. 

Beneath him, Connor let out a slow moan, the hands he had balled up in his lap going white knuckled as they held each other. 

Hank can’t see his face, his LED, anything, and desperately wants to. The one disadvantage to this setup. He imagines how blissed out Connor’s expression would be, and thrusts in again, letting the sticky blue goop from inside Connor’s brain act as a lubricant. 

Connor rocks back into his touch, pushing Hank deeper inside him with an impatience that was so unlike him usually.

Hank figures he’s getting to know a different side of him, and gives him what he wants, sharply thrusting back inside and quickening his pace. 

Connor’s arms reach back behind him, as much as he can reach, and his hands wrap around Hank’s legs, trying to move him closer, closer still. 

Hank gets harder, rougher, his hand gripping the top of Connor’s head with a feverish intensity, holding him in place as he pushes further and further. The pleasure is a coil he feels deep in his stomach, and like Connor described, it was building. He gets lost in it, in the back and forth of noise and movement. 

He doesn’t feel Connor’s grip get tighter, more urgent. Doesn’t notice when the noises stop. 

When he comes, there’s a pop of something, pressure being released. He’s wrapped in the height of it all, the ecstasy of pumping inside too much to even bear. 

Hank pulls out slowly, and lets go of Connor’s forehead. 

He only realizes something is wrong when Connor’s body slumps forward, the grip he had on Hank’s legs stiffening. Hank kicks off the hands, grabs Connor’s head and pulls him back to look at him properly. 

Connor’s eyeball hangs from its socket, a thin wire holding it near, but not close enough to connect. Through that hole, Hank recognizes his spunk trailing out. 

Emotionally, he’s hollow. He sees what’s in front of him, recognizes the issue, internally acknowledges the horror as his limbs shake beyond his control, but cannot form the words. What is he supposed to say? What is he supposed to do? 

Connor’s LED is spinning, red, yellow, red, flashing with further and further intensity. His eye, the one that remains, searches Hank desperately. His mouth is forming words but no sound is coming out, instead, a scratched crackle. 

Hank pushes him forward again, thinking that he had to do the same as before, when he turns Connor’s sound on again--Connor would know what to do. Connor could fix this, it wasn’t as bad as it looked. He reaches inside the diagnostic port, same as before, trying not to grimace at how slick the inside had become. 

Connor, beneath him, is trembling, motions stuttered, reaching to the ground in front of him. His jerking makes the process harder, Hank slipping up multiple times trying to find what he was looking for. 

When Hank finds the dial, Connor is slumped over completely, limp. He clicks it. Spins it completely around. Pulls his hand out, turns Connor over completely, ignoring how he flops, boneless. “Con.” he breathes out. 

Connor doesn't answer, his one eye looking blankly ahead. 

Hank looks to his LED, trustworthy in telling him the truth of Connor's emotions. He remembers when they first met, being able to tell when Connor was trying to figure something out--”What, is that like your loading screen?”--and finds it gray. 

Never been that color before. Hank taps it with a wet finger. It doesn't register. Doesn't move. 

He tries to not think about what it means. But his thoughts trail to it anyway. 

He holds a dead Connor in his arms and wonders what he can do from here.

**Author's Note:**

> woo boy. thanks for reading. 
> 
> okay if anyone knows how to post art in the actual dang fic and have it work let me know but for now: please look at this amazing art [please](https://alex-van-gore.tumblr.com/post/179381603965/illustration-for-a-lovely-little-hankcon-fic). 
> 
> follow me @ exfriends on Tumblr!


End file.
